Demon Descending
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: The Ebon Wing of Auj Oule, the king's right-hand man, Wingul the Nova: whatever you call him, he is not a failure. For the good of his country, he'll ensure that record remains unbroken by any means necessary. In a world without boosters, a vial of liquid power is the only way he sees to heal the wounds to his pride… but at what cost? Xillia's world, Hakuōki's lore. I own neither.
1. fleeting fury

**_Author's Note:_** _I don't know how I first came to realize the parallels between Wingul's booster and furyhood, but I couldn't unsee it, and thus was born this AU. Just a couple notes before we begin: one, this takes place several years before the canon timeline starts, so several characters make appearances in different contexts than the game provides. And two, if you want the exact translations of the Long Dau sprinkled throughout the story, I used the online translator on Yola._

* * *

The first sign of consciousness is, unsurprisingly, torture.

It's bad enough at first that Wingul can't even form thoughts amid the haze of hurt. It starts as a slow dull ache, like some invisible force is pushing pressure points all over his body, but then it rises in pitch and intensity until he feels himself twitch, spasm, _writhe_ in agony—and then, his body finally fails him as his muscles stop responding, only for the pain to start building up all over again.

Sounds drift in and out of his ears, but they all seem muted, as if Wingul lies under the surface of something thicker and darker than water. Even breathing seems too much of an effort, shallow and labored. But as he forces himself to think, he finds that it might have been better for him to sink back into slumber: nothing hurts more than the anguish tearing him apart from the inside.

Wingul knows, even before he's lucid enough to hear anyone tell him so, that he'll never fight again. This is no temporary injury; if his entire being hurts this much even after all the healing artes, that single blow from the giant's hammer had almost killed him. Wingul winces, but his face barely responds; his lip twitches, and is still. Never in his life has he been so utterly defeated—so thoroughly _humiliated_.

Even before he opens his eyes, he tries to sit up, but the action never makes it farther than the impulse. White-hot pain shoots through his everything, and Wingul can no longer suppress an indistinct moan, his teeth clenched hard enough that it hurts; if he had more strength, it might have been a screech.

The noise, more than the motion, is enough to get him noticed: "Stay," a familiar voice commands, almost imperiously, and Wingul stiffens. He might have told him to know his place if he hadn't been put so completely in his own; he has little choice but to obey, and reluctantly forces his muscles to relax. If he didn't know better, he'd say that voice belongs to…

"Don't push yourself," adds Nils, peering at him sharply, but by no means is he angry; in fact, there's overwhelming relief shining in his bright blue gaze: Wingul frowns faintly at his restless retainer, sitting at his bedside. "It's a miracle you're even alive, let alone awake. You need to rest."

"N-no," croaks Wingul, as defiantly as he can—but even that single word seems too much for his lungs: his eyes widen, and he almost chokes as wet coughs tear at his throat, already raw and aching from the strain of breathing. The stark truth is that a sword doesn't help much against a warhammer; much as Wingul hates to admit it, Nils is right. It would be best for him to hold still, at least until his every nerve stops screaming.

Nils dabs anxiously at his mouth with a dingy cloth and holds it up so that he can see red flecks. "That's blood," he tells him, as if he can't see for himself. "You're in bad shape. _Please,_ Lord Wingul," he adds, with enough delicate insistence that he can tell this is more a demand than a request.

Wingul manages a shaky scowl, giving himself over to discerning his surroundings rather than focusing on his condition. Given that he can't have been safely moved too far from the place he fell, not to mention the aura of almost penetrable gloom, there's no way he could be anywhere other than the Labari Hollow laboratory. It was due to his intervention that this place is still in operation… and it was also on his orders that the scientists there are refining the substance they so ironically call the Water of Life.

After His Highness unified the nation a couple years ago, Melard was willing to resort to desperate measures to retake the throne. Severely outnumbered and outmatched, the exiled king commissioned a concoction intended to enable humans to make use of mana directly, augmenting their physical strength, speed, and regenerative abilities. In this way, he hoped, he could retake the capital with the few supporters he had.

…It was a brilliant strategy, but Wingul never would have taken a risk like that in Melard's position. His soldiers indeed gained superhuman abilities, but—perhaps fitting for a potion intended to replicate spiritual powers—they came at the cost of their humanity. The Battle of Arklund was over as soon as it began; most of Melard's men snapped at the sight of blood, and they turned on each other like animals, some even tearing at the flesh of their fallen comrades in a desperate effort to sate their unnatural thirst…

Wingul doesn't realize he's slipped into a dream until he hears raucous, shrieking laughter; he starts, looking around to find himself on the battlefield again, and settles automatically into a combat stance as he assesses the situation. His trepidatious men have by now nicknamed their artificially enhanced enemies _furies_ , after their indiscriminate wrath; after a few instances of attempted desertion, followed immediately by Sutīditu Vuredun' through their backs, he has informed his men that if these so-called furies strike fear into their hearts, they ought to strike steel into theirs… or he'll do the same to them.

Smiling almost as savagely as his adversaries, Wingul hefts his hilt in his hand. Some might call this a nightmare, but he feels in his soul that he belongs on the battlefield; his dream-self settles easily into the style he's practiced from the age of five. As he flits endlessly from fury to fury, slashing and stabbing with all the power his real self can no longer muster, he finds himself sympathetic to their tireless enthusiasm for battle, and envious of their miraculous resilience. If only he had their strength, but his own sanity, he could use it for a far higher purpose.

As the thought crosses his mind, Wingul laughs aloud as a new and shining possibility is made clear to him. This battle has already been won, and he's had the research on the Water of Life resumed… but research has recently come to a standstill without His Highness's permission to experiment on humans. However, according to their latest tests on various animals, they've made a considerable amount of progress with regard to maintaining sanity. And if Wingul is too badly injured to be of use to his king and country as a human…

As if summoned by the thought of his present condition, the giant's silhouette appears in the fog of battle, and Wingul glares up at him with as much hatred as he can muster—but as the hammer comes down a second time, he jolts awake again and grimaces, his eyes fluttering open to take in the same surroundings as before. The physical part of his pain has thankfully lessened to a dull throb during the time he was unconscious, but the torment of his defeat still aches sharply in his heart.

"Welcome back, Lord Wingul," Nils greets him, and Wingul squints at him, frowning faintly; he's wearing a different outfit, and his face seems much more drawn and tired. How long has it been…? He clears his throat faintly, and the impulse to cough hits him almost like a physical blow, but he is able to swallow it this time, albeit with some difficulty.

"H-how long…?" he manages shakily, and can speak no further; thankfully, Nils understands his intended question—as expected of a servant almost close enough to be his shadow.

"It's been the better part of a week since they brought you here," he tells him, his voice strained, and Wingul's eyes widen. An entire _week_ …? He tries to sit up once more, but can only lift his torso an inch or two before his strength fails him, and he falls back again. "Please lie still," Nils advises him, patiently ignoring his readily obvious frustration with his condition. "You may be doing better, but you're still far from healthy."

Wingul narrows his eyes in displeasure. "And… how long do they think… it will take me to… recover?" he asks haltingly; breathing too deeply still hurts, and his voice is hoarse and ragged from disuse, but he has to ask. The answer may affect his decision; it's important for a strategist not to slip up. If he throws away his humanity for nothing, His Highness will never forgive him—to say nothing of himself.

Nils looks at him for a moment with some worry, as if to gauge how he will react to whatever he has to say, then lets out a long breath. "They say it'll probably be at least another month before it'll be safe for you to travel back to the capital," he tells him, and Wingul stares at him incredulously. "And… from the looks of things, you'll be out of commission for a long time," adds Nils, more tentatively still, and drops his gaze.

Wingul glares at him with all the ferocity he can muster; he must understand that his purpose in life is to advise and defend the king, as his purpose was once to advise and defend _him_ —even if he's since stationed himself here to oversee the Water of Life's development process. "Any word from… His Highness?" asks Wingul, shifting helplessly in place.

Much to his dismay, Nils shakes his head hesitantly. "Not that I've heard," he responds, frowning. "But I've been busy fending off the people who want to turn you into a fury. It's… possible… that a message has come for you in the meantime." As he speaks, a wry smile tugs at Wingul's mouth, and Nils eyes his expression with increasing alarm; he can only imagine what it must look like to see such a wide smile from a man on what may as well be his deathbed.

"I have a solution," he announces as authoritatively as he can, struggling to sit up; his stiff sore muscles twinge, but he grunts and pushes himself upright with what remains of his formerly formidable strength. If this is all he is now, he's no use to anyone, not even himself. "Give me… the Water of Life."

Nils's eyes widen momentarily, and he blinks a few times, frowning as if unsure whether he heard him correctly—and then shakes his head. "I know how difficult it is for you to be helpless, Lord Wingul," he murmurs, his tone aggravatingly appeasing underneath several layers of worry. "But I must beg you to reconsider."

Wingul gives him a look. "That's an order, Nils," he barks, and his retainer flinches at his tone. "I'm telling you… to give me the Water… of L-Li—" Convulsive coughing cuts him off again, and he tastes something thick and metallic and almost retches. That, more than anything else, convinces Wingul that his chosen course is the right one after all: he will _never_ allow himself to be incapacitated like this again.

"In any case, I don't have the authority to do that," Nils tells him eventually, clearly struggling to keep his voice level; Wingul can see him trembling. "It hasn't been sanctioned for testing on humans yet. Besides, I'm sure you'll need His Highness's—"

"I'm the one who… approved the research… in the first place," Wingul interrupts, almost snarling. " _Bring it_!" he bellows with as much force as he can muster, though his voice is still so weak it may as well be a whisper. Nils gets to his feet obediently, but hesitates one last time, scrutinizing his expression as if to evaluate his sincerity; Wingul can only glare at him, his chest heaving, and dare him silently to question his decision once more.

Finally, Nils sighs, his eyes welling up with almost frightened tears, and can look at him no longer. "I'm sorry for your loss," he mumbles, bowing his head briefly more in sadness than agreement, and shuffles out the door.

* * *

 _The snowy hair and scarlet eyes he sees in the mirror are not his own, but Wingul feels like himself for the first time in far too long. Perhaps he's_ more _than himself, now; he kneels before his own twisted image, wracked with the lingering agony of metamorphosis, laughing and crying and shivering in all the feverish intensity of his rebirth as a monster._

 _"_ Yaio'din imuruya e subaididu miba _," Wingul tells himself gleefully: he is only a sword now. Sourceless tears streaming down his face, he punches his reflection in the jaw for his insolence: the glass shatters. Pain shoots across his knuckles as his fist collides with the mirror, and he inhales sharply. Licking the blood from his hand, he brushes the back of his palm over his cheek—diluting the crimson stain with saliva and sweat and tears._

 _Yet his blood tastes no different than usual on his tongue, and no compulsion tells him to drink it; madness is not among the sensations in his mind, or perhaps he's just always been mad. Even as he stares down at his torn knuckles, Wingul feels his flesh mend itself seamlessly, and stares in awe, braving another tentative smile… and the last remaining shards of the mirror on the wall smile back with their jagged silver teeth._

 _"Do you think—do you think he'll be all right?" asks Nils's voice as if from a great distance, breaking in the middle, but no one responds. For all Wingul knows, he's asking_ him _._


	2. done is done

"…What have you done?"

Wingul senses the cold shock in the king's voice even before he speaks, though he did not anticipate the subdued rage edged with disgust. Something in His Highness's tone tells him that he already knows what Wingul has done, and that he requires an explanation of _why_ rather than _what_. After all, though he obeyed the king's instructions to send a letter ahead of his arrival, he did not include an explanation of the circumstances surrounding his doubtless unexpected recovery.

"It was my decision, and mine alone," Wingul tells him, as humbly as he can, though he cannot suppress a note of saddened exasperation. "If I hadn't drunk the Water of Life, I'd have been bedridden for several more weeks—and even after my eventual return to Kanbalar, I may never have regained my full strength." There is no need for him to explain further; His Highness understands, as perhaps no one else can, that such a fate would be worse than death.

"It was _not_ ," retorts the king, and Wingul's eyes widen. "There is more to be considered than your strength. Should my right-hand man and chief strategist succumb to any… bestial impulses, the consequences could be severe." He gives a sharp exhalation, too impatient to be a real sigh. "If anyone discovers that I have permitted the continuation of experiments pertaining to Melard's research, the legitimacy of my reign may be called into question. I cannot allow that to happen without good reason."

Perhaps it's the exhaustion the daylight hours have already begun to bring, but Wingul finds it increasingly more difficult to breathe under that piercing gaze—until the king eventually takes a deep breath and shakes his head. If he needs to go to such lengths to calm himself, he must be much more agitated than Wingul thought. "I know you well enough to know you would never make this decision lightly, but I need to know why you chose to take such a drastic measure," he says finally.

Wingul lets out a long breath. "Do you remember the day I pledged my service to you?" he asks, and His Highness inclines his head by way of affirmative. "Had any other enemy come to me with a warning, I might have laughed in his face. And, had any other man referred to my soldiers as his people, I might have killed him. But I could see in you a righteous ambition, and a limitless love for our nation," he adds, daring to search the king's gaze. "In that moment, I understood that you and I were fighting for the same purpose—for which I would willingly lay down my life."

A question arises in the king's eyes at his words, but he does not ask it and merely frowns instead; Wingul gives him a wan smile. "In order to continue striving for peace alongside you," he adds, more slowly, "I must be strong enough to do so. As a human, I had lost too much of my strength to be of any use to our cause. But as a fury… I will be able to fulfill my duties. To you, and to Auj Oule."

His Highness purses his lips. "Even without your full fighting strength," he counters, "your skill as a tactician remains unmatched."

But Wingul shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly. "I don't doubt your strength by any means," he responds, "but I swore an oath to protect you, and guiding our men to victory is only a small part of that mission. I already failed you once; I cannot fail you again." He hesitates, moistening his lips. "If I had stayed at Labari Hollow for the next month or more, who would defend you in the meantime?"

The king meets his eyes with all the steadfast resolution he reserves for controversial statements, and Wingul narrows his eyes slightly. "The man who bested you may be of some assistance," he tells him matter-of-factly. Wingul's eyes widen, and his mouth forms the word _what_ , but His Highness ignores his shock and explains, "His name is Ortega Kitarl, and I have decided to initiate him into my personal guard alongside you, as soon as he earns his tribe's forgiveness and leadership.

"He challenged me out of concern for the death of a young girl," continues His Highness, raising his voice slightly to dissuade Wingul from interrupting. "He believed I had ordered the murder of her family, and did not believe such a cruel man should sit on the throne." He sighs, shaking his head. "Upon realizing his mistake, he asked me to execute him, but he and his sense of justice are both of uncommon strength. I decided his counsel could be of use in future, so I chose to pardon him instead, and requested that he join me."

Wingul bows his head, gritting his teeth. Just as His Highness understands that he did not enter into furyhood lightly, so too does he trust that the king's faith in such a dangerous man is not blind—but the prospects of gaining a would-be assassin for an ally distress him far less than his hasty recruitment. Presumably, the king had operated on the assumption that his right-hand man would not return so soon; would he have been so eager to enlist a stranger as part of his guard if Wingul hadn't failed in his duty…?

"Whatever you think is best," he decides eventually, finding his voice at last. He tries to ensure his tone is as free of emotion as possible, though he knows his disapproval is clear enough without his elaboration. If His Highness chooses to acknowledge it, he will; there's no need for him to belabor the point.

But rather than address Wingul's opinion, the king instead speaks directly to his half-hidden insecurities: "This does not mean you are dismissed," continues His Highness, a note of something unusually soft—reassurance?—in his voice. "Out of respect for your loyalty, and for the reasons behind your decision, I will permit you to continue serving under me. However," he adds, as Wingul looks up in astonishment, "I would prefer it if you lie low for a time."

Wingul pauses, bowing his head. "Your Highness, I am a man of twenty-one," he says. "No matter how long I may live, I would rather spend that time as a fury fighting by your side than as an invalid surrounded by books while better men go to die. I can't live out the rest of my life with strategy as my only purpose."

As Wingul dares to look up again, seeking the assurance of understanding, the corner of the king's mouth instead twitches up in a bitter smile. "If your loyalty is such that you will drink the Water of Life to continue serving me," he tells him, "then you have no reason to object to my orders. I say you will remain in the castle until I tell you otherwise." Reluctantly, Wingul bows his head in grudging assent. "Only for a short while," adds His Highness. "To make sure you don't suffer from any… adverse effects."

It's several seconds before Wingul can convince himself to speak, lest his words be taken as protest. "Do you not trust me?" he asks, making a colossal effort to clear his voice of all emotion, but his tone sounds pained even to his own ears. As he speaks, His Highness's wise eyes cloud over, and there is a brief and excruciating pause before he answers.

"I trust you," the king tells him finally, his voice sincere despite the hesitation, and Wingul releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "However, you must remember that you are the first human to ingest the modified Water of Life. Had you not outranked the scientists of Labari Hollow, they might have kept you confined to a cell, and watched you as they would have watched any test subject." His Highness sighs, shaking his head. "If you have any complaints about walking free within the palace, I will send you back to the Hollow for them to keep a closer eye on you. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Your Highness," murmurs Wingul, recognizing his defeat. It's true that had any other man been the first to drink the Water of Life, his every move ought to have been tracked like an animal—observed all hours of the day and night. Perhaps, if Wingul can convince himself to believe in his comparative freedom, he'll stop noticing the gilded cage in which he has lately been locked.

* * *

 _The next day brings with it a dull throbbing ache, rising inside him like the cool autumn sun, or perhaps like nausea. He lies there, pinned in place by weightless light, and slowly lets himself burn alive from the inside out; he can barely breathe, trembling as if once more affected by the cold to which he has long since grown accustomed—but he feels feverish._

 _The dawn flooding into his room seems unnaturally bright and stiflingly hot, though Wingul knows all too well that even the dog days in Kanbalar are far from warm. This, then, must be one of the effects of the Water of Life, catching up with him fully at last: he opens his eyes a crack to take in a few paper packets of powdered medicine, intended to suppress the bloodlust. It's a temporary solution, or so they told him, but they said he should take it if he starts feeling sick._

 _…Wingul certainly doesn't feel well, but he doesn't want blood_ _—and even if he did, he knows himself well enough to understand that giving in to a savage impulse like that will destroy him more than the suffering about which they warned him. The only thing he wants now is sleep… or, should that fail, he wishes he could bury himself in the pulsing pain in his head, drowning out the tormenting thoughts flitting through his pounding head like so many flakes in a snowstorm._

 _Eventually, after what might be minutes or hours, Wingul drags himself sluggishly out from under the covers and sits up; the moment he moves out of range of the sunlight streaming through his window, a sense of relief washes over his limbs so that he almost collapses. Staggering to the foot of his bed, he clings to his bedpost, holding himself upright with all his strength, and glares at the lightening sky before turning his eyes away—as much in shame as soreness._

 _Wingul let go of his humanity for the sake of power… so how can he feel so weak?_


	3. nightbreak

_Wingul never realized how beautiful the night could be._

 _He's settled into a routine over the past month or so, making an uneasy peace with his new self. Though the fabled madness of the furies is thus far almost alarmingly absent, there are other, more ordinary hardships to consider. There is as much work to be done as ever, and their alleged ally the former assassin hasn't arrived to ease their burden yet. Though Wingul forces himself out of bed at noon, irrespective of His Highness's requests that he stop pushing himself, only seldom can he find his way to bed before dawn._

 _Wingul's body feels heavier during the daytime, as though he absorbs the sunlight and carries it with him, and its formerly welcoming rays invariably irritate his increasingly more sensitive skin. Nonetheless, the world seems different, once the sun dips below the horizon; he feels it in his gut. Nightfall brings with it a sense of quiet power and serenity, a stark contrast to the sluggish restlessness daylight has come to induce—so he takes to spending as much time outside as possible after the king goes to bed._

 _The full moon shimmers like a pearl dropped into the pool of the heavens, the stars diamond droplets sparkling on an obsidian shore. In a way, Wingul's own worthless insignificance is comforting; if the sky were to shift, the world would know, and chaos would ensue. Mere mortal that he is, he can cast off his humanity like a disused garment, and no one is any the wiser._

 _Wingul permits himself to laugh aloud at the thought; his duty has always been to support His Highness from the shadows, only before it wasn't quite so literal. But his chuckle cuts itself off and he sways in place, suddenly lightheaded; the edges of his vision darken, and his heartbeat roars in his ears. He bites his lip hard enough that it hurts in an effort to keep quiet—but then, something salty and metallic touches his tongue. Blood._

 _Desire the like of which he has never felt suddenly swallows him whole, and he sucks his lip desperately to draw in a few more precious drops. But it's not enough; his own blood turns tasteless in his mouth before long. He needs more than… his own… Wingul pushes through the Xailen Gate, stumbling down the path to the temple, his breathing harsh and ragged against his throat. This is not who he is. He will not bow down to this. He will not…_

 _Agony possesses his body as though he is no more than a puppet, pushing him to one knee like a physical force, and he clutches his heaving chest, his fingers curling automatically so that his nails press painfully into his skin. The sensation brings him briefly back to his senses and, with shaking hands, Wingul draws out one of the packets of medicine from his pocket. He knows it's supposed to be mixed with water, but there's no time; he swallows the powder dryly and coughs, almost choking, his throat closing itself off in rejection of this bitter substance that is not blood._

 _…The effect is far from immediate. Wingul doesn't even realize he's fallen to his hands and knees until he feels his fingernails dig into the dirt path beneath him, his breath coming in gasps. To keep his mind off the forbidden desire consuming his entire being like fire, he repeats a wordless mantra to himself: he is his own master. Nothing else can control him. He is his own master. Nothing else can control him. He is his own master. Nothing else can control him. He is his own master…_

 _The pain recedes so gradually that Wingul can't tell it's gone until his strength fails abruptly: he's been tensing his muscles for at least half an hour. He draws a shaky inhalation as he finally stirs again, of his own volition this time, and realizes with no small amount of revulsion that his clothes are soaked with sweat; he shivers in the sudden sharp chill of the late-night air. The sun should rise soon; he needs to get back to the castle…_

 _As weary as if he'd spent a day in the light, Wingul pushes himself weakly to his feet. He knows the king has asked him to confess to him his strife… but he also knows that for all his augmented strength, obeying is not within his power to do. He is his own master. Nothing else can control him._

* * *

His unauthorized absence from the castle does not go unnoticed.

For a time, he's afraid that the king knows of the bloodlust… but fortunately, he only called him in because a guard spotted him returning to the castle. His Highness thankfully does not remark on his haggard appearance. Rather, Wingul is interrogated as to his purpose for disobeying orders and wandering the streets of Kanbalar at such late hours. The king's words sound hard and sharp and much too loud in Wingul's ears, like a knife on the grindstone. Or perhaps _he's_ the knife.

"Is there something else you would rather I do?" asks Wingul weakly, wincing as his head throbs with the effort of speech. This is worse than a hangover, he thinks. "Even you retire before dawn, Your Highness, and in the hours after you return to your room, you leave me no other tasks. I apologize for disobeying orders," he adds, bowing lower, "but I only wanted to go for a walk, and I did not wish to be interrupted. I…" He pauses to gather his strength, knowing he has no right to make requests. "I would be grateful if you allowed me to leave the castle, if only to walk the streets alone."

His Highness knows perhaps too well that Wingul is a private person; hopefully, that explanation will be the only one he needs. Thankfully, the king lets out a long and lingering breath of resignation. "Very well," he responds, visibly reluctant and perhaps a little suspicious, and waves his hand in the signal of dismissal; Wingul can sense the disapproval alongside the concern in his tone every time he addresses him. They both understand that his metamorphosis is unnatural; the difference is that the king also believes it unnecessary.

Staggering to his feet in an attempt to straighten up, Wingul sways dangerously in place, and His Highness clears his throat and shifts in his throne. "You… don't look well, Wingul," he tells him cautiously. "Are you _sure_ you're all right?" Wingul stares at him incredulously before he remembers his place, feeling his pale cheeks flush under the king's unrelenting magenta gaze. He can tell that His Highness is inquiring not only after his physiological well-being, but the state of his mind as well. A king should not have to trouble himself with his strategist's physical condition, much less his personal doubts and deliberations.

"I could ask you the same, Your Highness," responds Wingul eventually, bowing his head to humble himself. "I know you're still wary of the effects of the Water of Life, but I'm confident that I can endure whatever trials come with being a fury." He survived his first bloodlust, after all, and he'll withstand a thousand more such moments if he must. "And if I should stray from the righteous path," adds Wingul, looking back up at the king with all the earnestness of the truth he feels, "I know you will not hesitate to cut me down."

His Highness senses the question in Wingul's words, and inclines his head slightly in contemplation. "I can see that your trust in me is strong," he murmurs eventually, and it sounds as though he speaks as much to himself as him. "The least I can do is offer you the same trust, on the condition that you tell me if you experience any… _other_ symptoms."

As he speaks, his eyes burn with all the intensity of the central bonfire, and Wingul frowns somewhat nervously. "Given what you and I have both seen of Melard's men," continues His Highness, his voice acquiring an edge as cold and dangerous as his sword, "I'm sure that withstanding the light of the sun will not be your only hardship as a fury. I have every faith in your self-control," adds the king, as Wingul's eyes widen, "but you must tell me if it falters."

Wingul nods once as if in agreement, but all the same, he chooses not to tell him of last night's trial. It's for the best, he tells himself firmly, that His Highness not worry himself over nothing: he may stumble in secret, so long as he does not allow himself to fall.


	4. the beast and the burden

… _It's not working anymore. It shouldn't be a surprise, given that the medicine took much longer to affect him last time, and they did warn that it was temporary; but what else is Wingul supposed to do? Giving in to the madness is not an option, but he's not… strong enough for this… torture…_

 _Even long after he swallows the last dose of medicine… his thoughts have degenerated into an unbroken internal scream… threatening to shatter his skull from the inside with the force of his suffering… perhaps that means the medicine is working after all; he no longer wants blood… he wants it to be over… he wants to die… to be human… to be himself… to be… his own… master…_

 _Coughing and wheezing… Wingul scrabbles at his chest… scratching and scraping desperately at the surface of his skin… but it heals too quickly for him to rip out his heart… and he sways and falls to the side… the dull ache of colliding with icy cobblestone is nothing… compared to the white-hot pain pressing on the backs of his burning eyes… as dry as his mouth, open in a silent shriek…_

 _The gutter is only a few feet away… if only he could drown… someone might be calling his name… but he doesn't recognize either the voice or the word… only the sound… he doesn't have the strength to struggle against the strong and steady hands… that peel his broken body off the ground and carry him… elsewhere… every noise, every breath, every step, every heartbeat hurts like hell…_

 _…It's not over yet. An eternity later, Wingul realizes hazily that someone has removed his coat and shirt, and he shivers in feverish exhaustion, clutching fistfuls of blankets instead of snow, and trembling with the effort of trying to hold himself together as his body tries to tear him apart from the inside out. A damp cloth on his forehead tells him that he is not alone, and only a split second after he notices this does someone speak._

 _"Why didn't you tell me?" asks the king, the first clear voice he hears, and Wingul's eyes snap open to find His Highness sitting by his bed, along with the giant looming behind him. Though his words are hushed as if he speaks half to himself, Wingul is suddenly sensible that despite his reason for becoming a fury in the first place, there is no room for thoughts of his king and country amid the agony in his head._

 _But His Highness has asked a question, and Wingul must answer. "_ Tuya—ususon' _," he pants, gritting his teeth; his voice is a growl, breath rattling in his throat. The only thoughts that make it as far as his mouth are in his mother tongue; he's lucky the king is among the few who understand:_ "U'tu fūmun'… baimu'ti tiekun'… emuya— _" A sharp gasp cuts him off, and he clenches his teeth still more tightly in a not-altogether-successful attempt to keep from wailing aloud._

 _The king's eyes widen in horror. "So this is the bloodlust," he murmurs, then gives a shake of his head as if to stir himself from a dream. "You will always be my right-hand man, Wingul," continues His Highness, more forcefully. "Your loyalty is unquestionable. But what do you mean to accomplish by destroying yourself like this?"_

 _Wingul flinches. Sudden resentment rises in his throat like bile, made bitterer by the pain gnawing at his stomach, and he almost spits out his response. "_ U waemu… fuugati hidi… Ajur _," he growls. He can still fight for his country, and defend his king with his life—more of a life than any human could ever have. He will never be defeated again, and he will overcome any torture for the sake of protecting his kingdom. "_ Hidi… yaio. Mi waisuti… usu tī'i… _"_

 _He can't finish the sentence—no cost is too great—but His Highness understands. "Not even that of your sanity?" asks the king, almost interrupting, and his voice is taut with anger born of overwhelming concern. "It's far easier to find capable warriors than brilliant strategists, Wingul. To dull your mind's edge in madness_ is _too great a cost, whether you choose to believe it or not."_

 _Wingul wants more than anything to contradict him, to explain that his suffering is purely physical and his psyche remains untouched, but any words in Long Dau will prove His Highness's point instead of his own. "Rest," commands the king, rising to his feet. "We'll discuss this later. Kitarl, keep an eye on Wingul. Don't let him hurt anyone, especially not himself."_

 _"Yes, Your Highness," responds the giant, and the king takes his leave._

* * *

They call the giant Jiao the Immovable, and for good reason.

Wingul has no wish to speak to him after his initiation ceremony into the newly expanded Chimeriad, but cannot easily duck past him to the hall: Jiao clears his throat in preparation for some sort of speech. "Given how recently we stood opposite one another on the battlefield, I can't say I blame you for distrusting me," he begins. "Thus, I must apologize for my actions in the hopes that you will be able to forgive me someday."

He gives a short but sincere bow; even with bent back, he is much taller than any ordinary man… but Wingul only narrows his eyes. Jiao is not the only immovable one. "If you acted according to your conscience, then there is no need for you to apologize," he tells him, unable to suppress his irritation. "Any self-respecting warrior should know that."

But, to his surprise, Jiao shakes his mighty head. "My quarrel was with the king alone, and even that was in error," he returns, grimacing. "I never intended to challenge anyone except His Highness himself, so I'm glad you recovered so quickly. But then, I suppose I shouldn't have expected any less of the Ebon Wing of Auj Oule," he adds, his deep dark chuckle rumbling through the hall like thunder.

Wingul glares at him. "No, you shouldn't have," he agrees tartly. Not because the rumors of his invulnerability are true; Jiao should know better than anyone that such legends are, or at least _were_ , baseless. Rather, it's because he possesses an uncommon strength of will that dictates he must do all within his power, and more, to keep his king and country safe.

"Don't misunderstand," responds Jiao, his expression clouding over, and Wingul frowns. "I know you are, or _were_ , like any other mortal man. I speak of the devotion required to drink the Water of Life." Wingul's eyes widen, and what remains of his heart almost stops. "I've seen the symptoms before," he adds somberly, his voice heavy with untold tales. "I'm sorry to see them again. I thought the last of the furies died with King Melard."

There is the merest hint of a question in his voice, and though Wingul owes him no explanation, he can't help but justify his condition anyway. "The concoction has been refined," he retorts crossly, almost defensively. The version he took was a vast improvement from the draught Melard's men drank, after all.

Jiao only shakes his head slowly. "It's true that the effects seem to have been delayed and suppressed," he concedes, "and you may look and act more human now than the original furies ever did, but still you suffer. Your dedication to your duty is admirable, but His Highness is concerned for you." He hesitates, bowing his head. "As am I."

Wingul glares at him. First Jiao dehumanizes him, and then he _patronizes_ him? Insufferable! "You have no right," he starts telling him, but a summons from the king cuts him off, and he turns slowly around. They have barely left the throne room, after all, and His Highness still sits there, observing their conversation—impartial, until now. In the heat of frustration, Wingul had all but forgotten that he and Jiao were not alone.

The king beckons him closer, and Wingul approaches and kneels: Jiao bows and takes his leave. "Your voice carries," says His Highness disapprovingly. "I had intended to let you rest awhile before I spoke with you—but if you can argue with Jiao, then you can explain to me why you chose not to tell me of your… _difficulties_." He waves a commanding hand, indicating that he should speak.

Wingul takes a deep breath, gathering his scattered thoughts. "I apologize for my secrecy, but I made the decision to drink the Water of Life, so it is my duty to endure any hardship as peacefully as possible," he explains eventually, and does not dare look up at the king's expression. "I thought it beneath Your Highness to trouble yourself with my condition, since I've resolved never to let it control me, and you know my will is even stronger than my body." He swallows convulsively, wondering if that's really true anymore. "Still… I am prepared to accept whatever punishment you deem fit."

"Look at me, Wingul," commands His Highness, crossing his arms, and Wingul jerks his head up more in astonishment than obedience. "Your choice is its own punishment, I think. You traded your soul for your sword, so if I take that away from you as well, what will you have left?" The king shakes his head slowly, almost sadly. "I have no choice but to let you continue along your chosen path," concludes the king, "and pray that you will honor your word to stay yourself."

Wingul bows lower still. "Yes, Your Highness," he says. "Thank you."

"There is no need to thank me," responds the king, his expression darkening as he glances briefly away at nothing. "There is little else that _can_ be done. But let me make one thing very clear," he adds, leveling a glare at Wingul so frigid it almost makes him shudder. "Every secret you keep from me is another step closer to becoming a monster—and the moment you bloody your hands is the moment I bloody mine." He pauses for emphasis, eyes flashing like lightning. "Am I understood?"

"Yes, Your Highness," murmurs Wingul, and lowers his gaze in respect. He knows, even without being told, that he will be tracked from now on like the animal he is… and wonders, with a somewhat bitter smile, if he can remember how to act like a human.


	5. cherries and pearls

If His Highness has not only sanctioned a trip to the pleasure quarters for his highest-ranking officers, but also _personally_ commanded Wingul to accompany them—apparently in the interest of maintaining his vitality—then his situation must appear more dire even than he imagines.

According to His Highness, the Rats have acquired a few new recruits in need of training, and his men need a break; Wingul, much to his chagrin, has been included among them. He tried to tell him that he hasn't been human for half a year, and then (more desperately) that even when he _had_ been human, such establishments never appealed to him. But the king wouldn't hear it; this order, like every other, was absolute. In the end, Wingul could only grit his teeth and agree to go.

So here he sits in the Rats' nest, sipping at yet another cup of expensive sake in an effort to dull his senses enough to shut out the debauchery all around him. A Long Dau prince has no business in the red-light district, much less a fury. All he can do is sit and wait for the night to be over, and pray an opportunity will come for him to slip away unnoticed.

At least his stubborn glower has discouraged the courtesans from approaching him thus far, except to refill his cup. His profile may be less intimidating than His Highness's or Jiao's, but Wingul still knows how to dissuade anyone from talking to him without so much as turning in their direction. Yet, even after a few hours, he can't shake the feeling that someone is watching him.

He surveys the room slowly, methodically, and curls his lip: it's late enough that the men are getting rowdier, and the women more flirtatious. They've all settled into their given roles by now, each seeking to gain something—money, information, falsified passion. It might be disgusting enough to turn his stomach, if only he wasn't so determined not to waste His Highness's money on refreshments he couldn't hold. Finally, along the wall, Wingul finds the pair of eyes that have been observing him from behind square spectacles; at the moment, thankfully, they're turned elsewhere.

He tilts his head, looking the apprentice up and down; at first glance, she doesn't look too out of place, but upon closer examination, she seems… young. Too young. Though her expression is impassive, Wingul knows too well the telltale signs of seeing too much too soon; she wants to be here about as little as he does. For a moment, memories of commanding his late father's army flash through his head… and then their eyes catch as she glances in his direction once more.

Rather than blush and look away again coyly, as he expects of an apprentice, the girl instead quirks an eyebrow and flutters her long lashes in apparent confusion or curiosity—crossing her arms and leaning against the wall in a casual challenge as she does not look away. Judging by that reaction, she's definitely new to the concept of artificial courtship… but Wingul doubts somehow that she's one of the recruits His Highness mentioned, if she's taken the role of spectator all evening.

Setting down his sake and getting to his feet, he stretches and approaches the apprentice. Once eye contact has been established, it's only polite to introduce oneself, and this girl looks like she might have more to offer than false flattery and an imitation of intimacy. She seems more real, or at the least, more interesting, as she eyes him with unmistakable wariness and perhaps a little alarm.

As he draws nearer, the girl straightens up as if to make herself more intimidating, though he notices with some amusement that she still needs to take a deep breath as if to steel herself. She's as much an actor as her colleagues, though perhaps for different reasons. "I'm sorry, sir," the girl says, before Wingul can so much as open his mouth; her voice is naturally breathy, almost hoarse. "I'm still an apprentice here, so I'm not allowed to touch any customers yet."

Her unspoken addition, _And they're not allowed to touch me either,_ is all too clear from her tone, and Wingul almost laughs. He can't blame her for thinking that's what he wants, but if she's been watching him as closely as he thinks, she has to have noticed that he's hardly inclined to indulge in the shallow pleasures in which his fellows take such pride.

"I'm not interested in your _services_ ," responds Wingul dryly, employing the appropriate euphemism with delicate emphasis. Crossing his arms, he leans against the wall next to her, narrowly avoiding a passing Rat pulling a starry-eyed customer deeper into hell. "I am, however, interested in leaving this room and your colleagues as far behind me as possible," he tells her. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think you are, too."

Wingul glances at her sideways as the girl looks him up and down through narrowed eyes, her initial astonishment quickly melting into suspicion. "They're always watching," she tells him, her voice low enough that he must lean down and in to catch her murmured words. "If you and I leave together, they'll know. You'll have to pay the cost of my… tuition."

She looks momentarily uncertain, or perhaps embarrassed, and Wingul glances briefly heavenward. Is that really what they call it these days? "I can't teach you what I don't know," he responds irritably, leaning his head back against the wall with a dull thunk and closing his eyes. All this noise and heat and perfume is beginning to make his head hurt.

There is a stunned pause before the girl finally laughs, and he opens his eyes again to blink at her incredulously; it sounds almost like a cough, as if she's been out of practice for some time, but it's surprisingly genuine. "Sorry," she manages, misinterpreting his stare, and ducks her head awkwardly to accentuate her apology. "It's just… not what I expected."

Wingul sighs, shaking his head. "I don't suppose there's any way for us to leave this place if I don't buy your _pun'ediru_ ," he mutters under his breath, automatically slipping into the term his cousin said they used in the Long Dau flowerhouses. Her pearl. There's no question that he can afford all the pearls in the establishment and then some, but he doesn't actually intend to take any of them; is escape worth such a price…?

"Is that Long Dau?" asks the apprentice unexpectedly, and he stares at her again, unsure whether he should laugh or wince. At Nils's insistence, Wingul had allowed the publication of a small dictionary of conversational Long Dau in an attempt to preserve a fragment of his culture in the changing times. He's always thought it a little ironic that a servant should be more preoccupied with maintaining the old ways than the prince—but that's nothing to the fact that a whore now knows the high tongue.

" _Yaiodi metun'_?" he responds, the question as much a test as an answer: does she have a name?

The girl smiles faintly in response, a sparkle of excitement in her eyes; this somewhat more childish expression suits her youthful features far more. But the glimmer is gone the next moment, as abruptly as if it were never there to begin with: "They call me Mink," the girl tells him eventually, her voice edged with a sigh—not of impatience or boredom, but rather, sorrow or longing.

Wingul's mouth tugs aside in the beginnings of a grimace; perhaps it's the alcohol, but he can see himself in this apprentice all too clearly. "They call me Wingul," he responds, echoing her phrasing, and a frown flits across Mink's face before she stares at him in recognition.

She bows her head hastily. " _H-hidig'nun_ ," she manages, haltingly, and does not look up at him again. Forgive her.

" _Gudiewan'_ ," Wingul tells her, the customary response, and Mink breathes a short exhalation of relief. He's about to tell her that there's nothing to forgive in the first place when a sharp spasm cuts him off, clutching at his heart like claws of forbidden hunger… the beginnings of bloodlust.

 _Wingul's eyes widen—not here, not now—and Mink frowns as she sees the shift in his demeanor, but there's no time to let her speak. "Take me to your room," he manages through grit teeth, thrusting his coin-pouch into her hands. His heartbeat has become painful, and his tongue wants to speak Long Dau, but he forces it to form words in the common tongue. "I'll pay your tuition. Only… hurry."_

 _She doesn't understand his urgency, but she obeys without a word, signaling one of her colleagues from across the room before departing at a rapid pace. Wingul follows her through the labyrinth of narrow corridors, holding off the weakness as long as he can, holding his breath to suppress the pain. Does he still look like his human self, or has the fury blood already transformed him…?_

 _After passing through a bead curtain in an open doorway, they arrive in a room containing a bed bedecked in satin sheets. Wingul barely makes it there before he collapses onto the mattress, his fury side writhing within the fracture in his heart and forcing its way to the surface. Only after a few moments' agony does he discover that Mink is nowhere to be found, but no sooner does he recognize her absence than she returns._

 _Careful not to catch the strings of beads, she shuts the sliding door with a wooden click, faces him—and stops dead, his lightened pouch slipping from her fingers to the floor with a muffled clink of gald. "_ Sūdi _?" she asks in a hushed voice; the world flickers in and out of view with Wingul's heartbeat, but he can still see her taking a few tentative steps toward the bed. "Is that you…? Are you all right?"_

 _Wingul pushes himself upright with shaking hands, his vision unfocused, but manages a short nod. It's nothing that won't pass: he wants to tell her so, but the words won't come out. "Do you want me to get help?" asks Mink, more cautiously still, and he shakes his head jerkily. No; it's imperative that his condition remains a secret…!_

 _Mink is already halfway to the door by the time Wingul realizes she's ignoring him, and he lurches into motion, launching himself off the bed to close his fingers around her wrist. She gasps sharply, trying in vain to tug her hand away, but thankfully does not have the breath to call for help. "_ Sutieya _," he chokes out, as close to begging as he ever comes. "_ Purun'esun'. U'tu fuumun' _." At his reassurance, Mink relaxes slightly, but her pulse is still quick beneath his fingers._

 _Her pulse… Wingul swallows sudden saliva at the thought of her blood, separated from him only by a thin layer of skin. To distract himself from these thoughts, he jolts himself back to action and pulls Mink back to her bed. Even in a severely weakened state, he is still far stronger than she, and the same words that had calmed her moments before now identify him as a potential threat._

 _"I—I'll scream," she warns him, trying to pry his hand from her wrist with her immaculate nails, but her fingers are trembling as much as her voice. A hollow ultimatum, then._

 _Wingul shakes his head, looking intently into Mink's frightened eyes and willing her to understand. "_ Miti sun'zu _," he tells her, but her brow twitches into a frown; she doesn't know the word. "_ Miti… rinun' _," he amends hesitantly. What she thinks he wants is not love by any stretch of the imagination, but it's the closest approximation she might know. "_ Yuosuti—vun an'din'. Waituhiditi. Mi chidin' _." All he needs now is companionship, someone to ride out the storm with him. As wary as he is of what he might do to her, he's warier still of being left alone._

 _Mink dips her head in a halting gesture of submission, and she sinks down next to him on her bed, a short distance away. Her posture is elegant, her gaze directed demurely at the ground, and she keeps her hands clasped in her lap. Still, Wingul can practically hear her racing heartbeat beneath her breaths, the rhythm of life-giving liquid coursing through her body. It pools in the rosy blush on her face, a bruise on her chest half-concealed by pale powder… marking her as human, the prey to his predator, flesh and—_

 _Wingul wrenches his hungry gaze away, his mouth watering. He will not give in. He will not… "Would you like me to draw you a bath?" asks Mink softly, and he dares to turn his face slowly toward hers again. Amid the terror in her eyes is honest concern, and it prods at something inside him that used to be whole and human just like her, not a broken demon like he is now._

 _"_ U-ufu yaio… bausa _," Wingul coughs, and Mink nods once at his permission and rises. He follows her with his eyes, helplessly, to a large tub by an open window. As she closes her eyes, holds out her hands, and whispers an incantation, the golden glow of lantern-light illuminates a small grove of cherry trees in the central courtyard. Floating on the light spring breeze, a few petals flutter into the room like snowflakes—and for a shining moment, if only fleetingly, Wingul finds that their beauty is so captivating that it seems to soothe his pain._

 _It returns with a vengeance all too soon as Mink approaches again, her footsteps steady but cautious as a cat's, to guide him to the newly filled tub. She looks into Wingul's face to search his expression, slipping her soft fingers between his coat and his shirt as if to help him remove them—but he knocks her hand away as gently as he can by way of warning. She flinches and backs away, averting her eyes respectfully: evidently, she thinks he intends to remove his clothes himself._

 _…There's no time. As Wingul kicks off his boots and swings one leg into thankfully lukewarm water, Mink regains enough of her courage to catch his arm. "You'll freeze to death on your way home!" she exclaims, her expression inexplicably earnest, and he stares down at her. Something carnal and carnivorous stirs inside him at her tremulous touch, the only clarity he finds amid the haze of hurt in his aching head: what he wants, more than anything, is to taste her._

 _In that moment, his self-control becomes so fragile that he's surprised it doesn't shatter as soon as he imagines the feel of skin on skin and blood on tongue. The last remnant of his humanity takes over just in time, and he tugs his arm from Mink's frail grasp: not tonight. He's sworn to himself, and His Highness, that he will not give in. "_ R-run'ti… tun' _," gasps Wingul with an effort, forcing himself to don the mask of humanity once more._

 _As he sinks into his bath fully clothed, sweating and shivering and spasming in agony as he refuses to give his body anything it wants, he reflects in fragmented thoughts (sobbing dryly as the night wears slowly on) that maybe this is what hell is like._


End file.
